Keep Your Friends Close (But Your Enemies Closer)
by RougeMood
Summary: After some disturbing events in Muggle London, the Wizarding Community's most eligible bachelor Draco Malfoy is assigned a guardian - both for his 'safety' and 'that of the Wizarding Community'. Fate just has to have Harry Potter assigned to him. OR The one where Draco Malfoy has switched playing fields after the war, and is a full-on Muggle aristocrat, much to Harry's surprise.
1. It's Ministry Business'

Draco sits in his study, holding his head in his hands. The Message remains untouched on the ebony surface, although the owl which delivered it has long since left. The unruly scrawl itself doesn't give much away for those who don't recognise it.

Draco, on the contrary, knows the handwriting far too well. He's been expecting this for a few days now, but the reality of the smooth parchment on his table shocks him nonetheless, to the point where he has resorted to boycotting the unwelcome Message. The sender, unsurprisingly, has left things to the last possible moment. Nothing new _there_.

Sunlight begins to filter in from the almost-closed curtains and Draco, momentarily blinded, half-heartedly scowls at the infiltrating ray before covering his eyes with the back of his hands.

The official order itself arrived exactly one week ago from the Ministry of Magic. Draco had been trying to relax in the drawing room when a tawny owl had flown in, dropped an off-white envelope in his lap, and promptly flown out again. What had bothered Draco was the way it hadn't waited for a reply; it implied that the contents were unnegotiable, and that they didn't warrant a response.

He'd opened it with trembling hands to find his suspicions confirmed; the oh-so-familiar dread settled uncomfortably in his stomach as he'd skimmed through it.

 _Dear Mr. Malfoy,_ it had read (Draco had flinched at those words; he didn't think he'd ever get used being addressed as Mr. Malfoy). _As you may be aware, a number of high profile crimes have recently taken place in Muggle London. Upon investigation, we have been able to confirm that these incidents are directly related to the Dark Arts._

 _We regret to inform you that your name, amongst others, has come up in regard to these inquiries. The Ministry of Magic does not wish to impede on your wellbeing by having you brought in, and, as for the moment, we have no further evidence against you_ (Draco had known straight away that this was the only real reason for allowing him to walk free). _Therefore, for both your safety and that of the Wizarding Community, we are assigning to you a temporary guardian. You will be required to remain with your guardian at all times until the situation has been dealt with._

 _We have provided for you the details of your guardian (see overleaf), who will send you a message within the next few days in order to explain the terms and conditions to you in more depth. You are required to both abide to this plan and keep the guardian's personal information private under jurisdiction of the law. We sincerely hope you appreciate the great care we have taken in choosing a suitable guardian in accordance to your personal requirements._

 _The measures outlined to you above will take effect next Monday (week beginning 21_ _st_ _May)._

Draco had known that this was a long time coming; no matter how much he had tried to push himself away from the Wizarding Community over the years, the mistrust was omnipresent. Draco reckoned that he should be relieved that he wasn't immediately being rounded up and brought in, but the thought of having some detestable Ministry worker breathing down his neck at all times had only served to insult him. Draco, breathing out heavily, had then proceeded to turn the parchment over. The name of the guardian, printed in neat cursive, stole his breath from his lungs.

 _Your assigned guardian is: Harry Potter._

He'd blinked twice, taking it in, before dropping the note in resentment.

Draco grimaces at the memory, then steals another glance at the forbidden Message, before letting out a long suffering sigh and reaching for it.

"Hermione, I can't," Harry says, leaning back on the couch, hands on his stomach. "It's Ministry business," he hastily adds, the word _ministry_ implying _top secret_. Hermione sighs, irritated, but doesn't continue, instead taking a seat on the armchair beside him.

As Harry stares at the ceiling, he distractedly notices the crumbling wallpaper and makes a note to do something about it. 12 Grimmauld Place is his house, after all, and its neglected state is somewhat due to him. In his defence though, he's only recently moved back in. He couldn't even think about the house when the war ended without getting unwanted and disturbingly vivid flashbacks. But years have passed, and Harry has learnt that no matter how much you try to move on, you will always be rooted to the places that belonged to your loved ones.

It still hurts, though.

"I just wish you trusted me, Harry," Hermione whispers dejectedly, and Harry feels incredibly guilty. It's not that he doesn't _trust_ her, it's just…well, first of all, it's Ministry business, like he's said, and second of all...

His thoughts flit to Draco Malfoy.

He can't exactly remember the last time he saw him. The aftermath of the war is still a blur to him, and anyway, it's not as if he _wants_ to see him. The image of Voldemort during the Final Battle welcoming Malfoy back into his ranks, the awkward embrace, the sheer betrayal…just _thinking_ of it infuriates him. But he supposes he doesn't have a choice anymore. The Ministry has forced him into this, Harry just knows it, for a number of reasons; dropping out of 'eighth' year, declining the position that the Ministry offered him nonetheless, neglecting his 'duty' to attend events, and so on. Harry remembers the exact words they'd used in the letter:

 _As you consider our proposal, we urge you to be reminded of the fact that we granted you full custody of Edward 'Teddy' Lupin under special circumstances. Having contemplated this, we strongly advise you to send Mr. Malfoy a message in order to fill him in on the details that we have provided you. We hope this serves as an icebreaker of sorts._

 _The measures outlined to you above will take effect next Monday (week beginning 21st May)._

They're sublimely blackmailing him.

"How's Ron doing?" Harry asks quietly, changing the topic. Hermione immediately perks up, before noticing Harry's tone.

"Oh, Harry," she says, a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. "I'm sure this will all wash over soon." Harry sits up, agitated.

"For Merlin's sake, Hermione! What don't you understand? They lost _Fred_ because of me. George was _mauled_ because of me. And now, _Ginny's_ disappeared. And whose fault is it? _Mine_!" Hermione opens her mouth to speak, but Harry isn't done yet. "And maybe, _maybe_ that would be okay, if I'd actually _looked_ for her. But what did I do? Nothing! I just…" Harry's voice breaks. "I left them, Hermione."

Hermione doesn't reply, but hugs him, when an owl flies in. Hermione jumps back, startled, before looking at the neatly folded note with suspicion. Luckily, Harry covers up the signature before she can get a glimpse of the extravagant handwriting spelling out his enemy's name.

"Ministry business?" she asks airily. Perhaps it's the mistrusting look in her eyes, or the embarrassment of almost being caught with a letter from _Malfoy_ , of all people, but Harry shakes his head.

"No," he blurts, instantly regretting his decision when Hermione just narrows her eyes further.

"Well, then. Can I see?" Harry says nothing, but she gets the message, and stands up. "I'll leave you to it, then. Besides, I've got to get back to the children. And Ron will kill me if he finds out where I've been." Her voice is soft but disappointed as she Disapparates.

Harry glares at the note in his hand with bitterness, before opening it up. Malfoy's words are curt and to the point, much like his were.

 _2:45 pm, Patisserie Valerie._

 _D.L. Malfoy_

Harry briefly wonders what the L stands for, and why the hell _Malfoy_ would want to meet in a _Muggle_ café, before placing the letter on the table and stalking out of the room.


	2. Explanations Get You Nowhere

Keep Your Friends Close (But Your Enemies Closer) – CHAPTER 2

Draco is just about ready to leave the café when he catches a flash of messy brown hair and realises that Potter has been waiting for him _outside_ the bloody place. Reluctantly, he leaves the comfort of his seat. Knowing that the staff will keep his little spot in corner reserved, he saunters out, tapping the Idiot Who Lived on the shoulder as he approaches him.

"Turn around, Potter," Draco drawls as casually as possible. "I've always known that you were slow, but I never thought that you'd…" Potter turns, and Draco trails off, breath caught in his throat as he observes the young man. Intensely green eyes catch his own in a guarded stare. _Since when has Potter been so…?_ Draco's eyes begin to wander downwards, so he blinks twice, then marches back into the café without so much as another huff.

Wordlessly, Potter follows him indoors, and sits down at the table Draco motions to. The blonde himself doesn't join him; instead, he strolls up to the counter, breaking into a grin as he recognises the Muggle working at the till.

He watches her serve another customer, and mulls over his attitude towards her. It's strange; a few years ago, he would've turned his nose up at any Muggle. But now, he greets her as if she's an old friend. _Which_ , Draco muses, _she basically is_.

"Hey, Leila," he says cheerfully. The Muggle in question glances up at Draco, before smiling.

"Hiya, Draco," she responds in a soft but thick French accent. "D'you want the usual?" He shakes his head, before faintly gesturing towards Potter.

"Not today, sorry. Two cups this time." He smiles in what he hopes is a sympathetic way. She merely winks at him, before tracing an imaginary heart in the air, turning to prepare his order. Draco mimes throwing up in his mouth, knowing that she'll catch his movements from the corner of her eyes, far too used to Draco's antics. The way he leans is only too obvious, but him and _Potter_? Ugh, no. He's about to tell her as much, but she's already handing him the drinks, as swift as always. After paying and murmuring _'merci'_ to her, he makes his way back to where Potter is seated.

The tension is almost tangible between the pair as Draco places the cups down, settling himself across from Potter. He takes a sip from his drink, whereas Potter just glances at his suspiciously, before returning his gaze to Draco. This terse exchange continues for about two minutes, with Draco drinking and Potter staring, 'til finally, Draco breaks. After all, he's not set aside this time for nothing.

"It's not poisoned, Potter," Draco snaps, startling Potter, who just continues staring. Draco rolls his eyes, cheeks tinged slightly red at his outburst. "Just in case you were wondering," he mutters as an afterthought. To his great surprise, Potter chuckles. Draco raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. "What?"

"Nothing, I just…" Potter pauses. "I wasn't…I mean, what is it?" Draco snorts, and this time, it's Potter's turn to look confused.

"You stared at me for three minutes straight because you didn't know what _drink_ I ordered you?"

"It was only like, two minutes or something," Potter mumbles.

"It's hot chocolate," Draco sighs.

Potter furrows his eyebrows at this, in the same way he used to do all time in Potions. The thought makes Draco feel strangely melancholy.

"Oh," he replies, absentminded. His befuddled expression doesn't leave his face, and Draco sighs in exasperation.

"What is it, Potter?" The jade-eyed man doesn't reply, looking infuriatingly bewildered. Draco groans, burying his face in his hands. How is this _simpleton_ going to be any sort of useful guardian? In fact, Draco isn't even sure that he's _willing_ to accept the situation, although it's blatant that he doesn't really have a choice.

Potter _still_ hasn't uttered a word.

"You look like a Squib staring at a basic spell," Draco remarks, a half-smile on his face that he hopes hides his annoyance. Potter scowls at this comment, obviously still taking offence to his quips. What, had Potter expected him to change? Well…he _has_ changed, but just because he isn't fighting on the practically non-existent Dark side anymore doesn't mean he has to be all light and fluffy. He still has a licence to be a sarcastic bastard if he feels like it.

"It doesn't matter." Potter's voice is surprisingly soft, despite the hard line that he's worked his jaw into. Evidently, Potter has another reason for abiding to this… _arrangement_ beyond just obeying the Ministry, and Draco finds himself curious as to what it could be. After all, doesn't the Numbskull Who Lived have pretty much everything?

"So, then, why are you here?" Draco's prompt question has caught Potter off-guard. He can tell, because those deep emerald eyes mist over slightly in confusion, before the usual spark of knowing returns to them.

"Oh, you mean the conditions? I didn't want to write, and it would be easier to discuss it anyway. But, didn't I explain that to you in my note?" Draco rolls his eyes. Obviously, Potter is not as _knowing_ as he assumed.

"I mean why you _accepted_ the role of my 'guardian' in the first place, thickhead," Draco replies with a sneer. Anger flashes through Potter's eyes, before another emotion settles in them.

 _Fear_ , Draco realises with a jolt.

But what's Potter so afraid of?

Draco sets down his drink, slowly. Admittedly, insulting Potter is not going to get him any answers. He knows how this works; you give something to the person in return for them giving you something back.

"Sor-" _No. He's not saying that_. "Look, listen. I'm not trying to..." Draco's voice is suddenly hoarse, and he clears his throat, before starting again. "After the war, it seemed as if the Malfoy name would never recover. Father was in prison, and Mother…" Draco pauses for a second, looking up at Potter to gauge his expression. Much to his surprise, Potter is listening intently, his bangs brushing his face as he leans forward, as if encouraging Draco to continue. "Mother was ill. She's doing alright now, but at that time…

"Then there was me. As much as it pains me to tell you, I'm not used to being ignored. I don't _like_ being ignored. Seriously. All I wanted was to get back into society. Be, well, _desirable_ again. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was the only thing that would console me. But…I also wanted to prove something. Show people I was different, but that I wasn't afraid of my past. So, I continued living in the Manor. I still do.

"But, I also went to all the charity parties, all the high-class social events, and you know what I realised? I actually really _liked_ it. Socialising, I mean. Forgetting who I was. However, people would bring _it_ up, one way or another. Every single time. And my little...bubble would burst.

"Sometimes, I just saw people staring at me. They'd done that ever since I was a child, attending similar events with my father, so I was quite used to it. Of course, they weren't looking at me for the same reason anymore. Well, maybe some of them, but none that I saw. There were no admiring glances, or envious glares. They were all…" Draco stops, then mentally slaps himself. _What is he doing?_ He's only meant to say a little bit, just enough to get Potter to open up. "Wait. You haven't answered my question." He cringes at his choice of words. _Smooth, Draco._

"I…" And for a second, it almost seems as if Potter _is_ about to open up in response to Draco's own admission, but at the last second, his expression changes, and as does his tone. "Why do _you_ want to know, _Malfoy_? (Draco has to suppress the overwhelming urge to flinch. He's shown enough weakness in front of Potter.) What difference does it make? And plus, how do you know I'm not just doing this for the Ministry?"

The man in front of him still hasn't leant back, so Draco pushes himself forwards, in a futile attempt to intimidate Potter. It just serves to make the limited space between them that much more uncomfortable, but there's a hint of challenge in the air that Draco is not about to back off from.

"Firstly," he snarls, "If I'm stuck with _you_ -" he spits the word out like poison on his tongue "-then it's only fair I know _why_. Of course, you've presumably been informed of my situation. Secondly, it makes no fucking _difference_ as much as it makes it _fair_ , because _I haven't actually done anything wrong_. And last of all," Draco hisses, his voice dangerously low, "it's bitingly obvious that you wouldn't voluntarily spend a single second with someone who you consider to be no more than a filthy _Death Eater_." His final words sting on his tongue. Malfoys aren't meant to show emotion. Luckily, he only wears the name nowadays, so it doesn't really matter to him. Potter doesn't deny his accusation. Instead, he slumps back into his seat, defeated, the fire leaving his eyes.

"They threatened me," he whispers, and his voice is so broken that Draco just about himself from comforting the subdued man. For crying out loud, he was _yelling_ at the man a minute ago. How is it that Potter can always mess with his emotions like this? It's bloody unfair.

"They _threatened_ you?" Draco questions, incredulous. And no, he doesn't want to believe him. This is the Golden Boy, the darling of the Wizarding World. No-one in their right mind would _threaten_ Harry Potter. Except Draco, of course, though he doesn't really count. But then again, Potter isn't _that_ good of an actor. "How?"

"You can't tell anyone." Draco curtly nods. As if there was anyone to tell. "D'you recall Remus Lupin?" _How could he forget?_ That class was an absolute _disaster_ between the boggarts and the werewolf himself, although he himself, of course, still achieved high marks. He makes a noise of recognition.

"Well, he had a son with Tonks - Bellatrix's niece." Potter continues. Draco knows this. In the aftermath of the war, Andromeda Tonks had been amongst those distant relatives who had firmly told the Malfoys never to make contact with them again. "They both died fighting in the war." His eyes snap up to regard Potter, but he betrays no emotion. "The kid's called Teddy."

"I thought his name was Edward." Potter looks puzzled.

"You know him?" he whispers, as if scared or something, and Draco resists the urge to facepalm.

"He's my first cousin once removed. My mother was a Black, remember?" Potter seems to relax a bit, and resumes talking.

"Oh, right, yeah. I forgot about that. Anyway, Teddy lives with me nowadays, 'cos I'm…well, I'm his godfather, but at that time, I didn't have the rights to look after him. The Ministry 'granted' me custody of him, as a…favour, or something. And now, they're threatening to revoke their act if I don't agree to this."

Draco doesn't really know how to respond to this, but he feels like he has to say something, and before he can stop himself, he finds himself saying:

"I know how that feels." He does, in a way. But why he'd tell _Potter_ this, he has no clue. Potter resorts to rolling his eyes.

"No, you don't, Malfoy. It's alright; you don't have to try and respond." Draco splutters at those words, partly because they have an element of truth in them; he _did_ feel the need to reply. But, little does Potter know how much Malfoy can sympathise. Perhaps it's because he wants to prove Potter wrong, but Draco presses on.

"Yes, I do, _Potter_. I have a son of my own, believe it or not, and I've lost count of the number of times some Ministry official or the other has tried to take him away from me." Potter's look of shock is beyond amusing, and Draco fights the urge to laugh.

"You're _married_?" Potter questions in disbelief.

" _Was_ married," Draco corrects automatically. Trust Potter to follow up with a question like that. "To Astoria Greengrass. She passed away from an illness a few years ago." Despite himself, Draco's throat is beginning to block up, but God forbid _Potter_ start taking pity on him. "Don't. It was an arranged marriage. She was wonderful nonetheless. I'd…I'd die for one more day with her." He doesn't really care how Potter takes that statement. Astoria was a close friend of his. They never really got to the 'romantic lovers' stage, but he still misses her support and counsel, and finds himself needing it more than he cares to admit.

"What's his name? The son, I mean," Potter asks, and Draco doesn't fail to miss the way he's steered the conversation in a different direction. However, he's more than happy to oblige.

"Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy," Draco announces proudly. It was difficult, coming up with a name he and Astoria both agreed on, and he really doesn't appreciate the way Potter instantly bursts into barely-controlled laughter.

"You seriously named your child _that_? Oh, Merlin. Poor kid," he manages to say between breaths. Draco scowls.

"Well, Golden Boy, what would _you_ name your child?" he retorts.

"Don't call me that," Potter mutters, annoyed, only causing Draco to file away this information for later use. "Hmm." Potter is silent for a moment, before saying, "Albus. Or maybe Severus." Draco blinks.

"Sorry, did you just say _Severus_? As in my godfather _Severus Snape_? No wonder you don't have children." Potter's face falls at that, and Draco almost feels guilty. _Almost._ "At least you have Weasley," he adds hastily, but Potter just looks even more pensive.

"No, I don't. She's…" He honestly looks tortured, and Draco wonders if he's had some horrible break-up with the Weaselette. Knowing Potter, though, it's probably something deeper than that. "Look, let's not talk about this, okay? I'm only here to explain the terms to you," Potter says, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm your 'guardian', whatever the hell that means, and therefore have to be with you at all times. There's nothing stopping me from leaving you, though, so the Ministry are issuing a relatively loose Binding Charm-"

"A _Binding_ Charm?" Draco echoes. He wonders if there is any possibility of escaping this.

"Yes, Malfoy. They're designed to keep two people within a certain distance of each-"

" _I know what they are_ , Potter! They didn't bloody mention this to me!" Potter seems irritated. Good.

"Yeah, Malfoy, I'm aware. Apparently, _I'm_ meant to do that. Plus, all the charm does is inform the Ministry if we're no longer within the allotted space. We might feel a slight tug if we're too far away from each other, but that's it. It's kind of like the way the Ministry can detect underage magic."

"I still don't like it," Draco grumbles.

"The feeling's mutual. Anyway, this goes into effect at 10:00 am tomorrow, as you know. So, at some point, we're going to have to catch up on each other's schedules and stuff, so we can compromise. The sentence is indefinite, so I don't-" Harry continues talking, but Draco isn't listening. He's realised something. _Potter's going to have to go with him to…_

"Oh, shit," Draco exclaims, jumping to his feet. Potter stops talking abruptly, bewildered, and slightly annoyed.

"What?" he asks nevertheless. Draco pauses. Does he really want to go through all the hassle just to take _Potter_ , of all people?

"This… definitely begins tomorrow morning, right?" Draco clarifies. "We have to be together twenty-four seven from tomorrow?"

"I've literally just explained that to you," Potter groans, and for some reason, the sound is not entirely unbecoming for Draco. The irritation in his voice is, though.

"Alright, Potter, no need to be so rude," Draco mutters, as he slides back into his seat. There's nothing to it, then. He's going to have explain the situation to him. Potter opens his mouth to reply, but Draco continues talking. "So, how often do you attend social events?" Potter seems nonplussed by Draco's change of voice.

"What?" Potter's tone mimics the expression on his face perfectly.

"Social events," Draco repeats calmly, "How often do you go to them?"

"I don't. Um, why?" He notes the way that Potter bites his lip. So, this topic makes him nervous. Draco ignores his question, and carries on.

"Do you know the etiquettes required to attend one?" Potter raises an eyebrow, before tentatively taking a sip of his drink.

"Etiquettes? No, I really don't. But why does it matter, Malfoy?" It's easier not to shudder at the name this time, but it still unsettles him. Despite that, he follows on with his questions.

"Do you have formal clothes? A suit, or something?" Draco can see that Potter's getting tired of these questions, but he needs to know. It's not going to do any good giving into pity, or whatever.

"I have robes, if that's what you mean." Potter's looking at Draco now, but his gaze doesn't linger on his face. _Interesting._

"As a matter of fact, it's not. I recall asking you if you had a suit, Potter." Draco waits for an answer. He doesn't receive one. Potter takes another sip of his drink, remaining silent, and a hot flush rises underneath Draco's shirt. Draco wasn't lying when he said that he really, _really_ doesn't like being ignored. "Potter, I want an answer."

Another damn sip of the drink, before Potter smoothly replies:

"I'm not telling you anything until you tell me why you're asking me these random questions."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

Draco growls.

"Fine, you bastard. The reason I'm asking is because there's a social event that I'm going to tomorrow evening, and _you're_ obviously going to have escort me. I hope you appreciate what I'm doing for you, Potter, because the only way you can come at such late notice is if I cancel with the date I was going to take, thus subjecting me to a few hours of screaming, breaking things, and sobbing. I'll get _that_ done tonight.

"Small catch: this isn't a wizarding function, but a Muggle one. Don't look at me like that, Potter. You should be the last one to judge me for trying to be a little open-minded. It's much easier socialising with people who aren't a) trying to jinx you, or b) avoiding you in order not to get jinxed. Plus, they're all upper-class nobility, so they're not exactly peasants. There are one or two other Purebloods attending, who also happened to be on the wrong side of the war, and would like to get away from it all. It's funny how far being a multi-millionaire can get you in terms of getting people to like you, especially when they're not already prejudiced towards you." It seems as if Potter is about to say something to that, so Draco doesn't let him get a word in edgeways.

"Anyway, considering the circumstances, you can't come in robes, but you have to dress somewhat appropriately. Therefore, I'm asking you if you own a suit." Draco leans back, satisfied with the look he's left on Potter's face.

"Look, I'm not-"

"It's non-negotiable, Potter," Draco drawls. Potter thinks for a second, sipping from his cup.

" _Fine._ But you have to go with me to whatever places I want to go to _without complaining_." Draco doesn't think much of it, and shrugs noncommittedly. Potter seems to take this for a yes. "And no, I don't own a suit."

"I thought as much," Draco sighs, standing up. "Well, I guess I'm going to have to take you shopping, then."

" _Excuse me_?" Potter says, before rising out of his seat himself. "What makes you think I'm going to spend any more time with you than I have to, you git?" Draco brushes himself off casually, all the meanwhile struggling to actually keep his cool.

"Well, Potter, judging by the fact that I _refuse_ to let you come with me if you look anything less than presentable, and as that would simply result in the Ministry taking action, this is your only option. I am not letting you choose what you're wearing by yourself; you can't be trusted with these sorts of things. Besides, there's a dress code. So, in conclusion, we're going shopping _together_. Now." He lets himself look a little smug.

"You complete and utter jerk." Draco shrugs again.

"Whatever you say, Potter. I'm helping you pick out the best designer suits that will make you look somewhat decent, so that you don't embarrass us tomorrow. If this continues, you're going to need a selection of outfits, because I, unlike you, am frequently at these sorts of events. I'd rather you didn't have to come with me, but clearly, neither of us has a choice in the matter. At least I'm being mature about it, unlike you, who is still acting like the ass you were back at Hogwarts. People change, Potter. Maybe you should give me a chance." Draco winks sarcastically in a way that only does when at social events, and not dwelling on his unnecessary action, walks out.

"You're paying," Potter mumbles as he follows.

"Only for my own suits, Potter," Draco half-grins, turning off towards the high street.


	3. Six Inch Heels

Keep Your Friends Close (But Your Enemies Closer) – CHAPTER 3

Harry can't stop staring at Malfoy. How someone can change so much in four years, Harry has no clue. The platinum blonde's grown taller, his body more defined, his cheekbones higher and his blue-grey eyes so icy that they give him the shivers.

It's _weird_ , and it disconcerts Harry.

Harry feels extremely guilty for sneaking glances at his former nemesis – how can Harry call him an enemy now? After Voldemort, he's only really got space for dislike – when the man isn't looking at him. His brain can't reconcile the Malfoy in front of him with the Malfoy he remembers. Whilst he's practically the same – an obnoxious git with an over confident attitude and that drawling voice - he's also completely fundamentally different.

Malfoy's voice is not _deeper_ , exactly, but _smoother_ , richer, and it has a tone of self-defensiveness and regret. Despite his somewhat subdued personality, he maintains an air of calm confidence, which, not as arrogant as Harry is familiar with, is pretty self-assured – that Harry can't deny. And, the way his eyes soften when he talks about his kid – Draco freaking Malfoy has a _kid_ – doesn't match the pompous bastard he knew and hated. What really throws Harry off is this whole business of mingling with Muggles. Malfoy'd idly chatted with the woman at the till as if she was his best friend, and had admitted that Muggles weren't half bad. Harry has to give him credit for the idea; living amongst the Muggles to be able to go through life safely anonymous is a stroke of genius.

Not that he'd ever tell Malfoy that, of course.

He's changed his hairstyle too – it's no longer slicked back, but styled naturally, allowing some it to fall down and frame his angular face. He's always twirling those loose strands around one slender finger, making it hard for Harry to look away.

And then there's the biggest problem: Malfoy's apparent obliviousness to his… differences. Well, of course, he seems to realise that he's not who has was at Hogwarts, but he's completely unaware of the fact that he's changed _physically_ too. The way he unknowingly bites his lip and plays around with the ring on his middle finger (He's no longer married, is he? It must be some sort of family heirloom) drives Harry crazy. He knows the way he's staring is definitely not appropriate, and the thought makes him sick, especially considering this is _Malfoy_ he's looking at.

Harry is jolted out of his thoughts by a hand tugging on his arm, pulling him along so that he goes faster. Malfoy's grip is strong and steady, and Harry lets himself be dragged out of yet another backstreet. He knows he should be more vigilant about where they're heading, especially considering who's escorting him, but he can't bring himself to properly concentrate. All Harry really knows is that they've spent the last five minutes Apparating through different secluded alleys, attempting to get to wherever Malfoy wants to take them shopping.

Wow. Now that is a statement Harry thought he'd never be considering. Going shopping. For a party. Almost voluntarily. _With Malfoy_ , of all people.

Harry is suddenly aware that they are not moving, and looks up to meet Malfoy's inquisitive expression, one eyebrow perfectly arched.

"Ready to go in, Potter?" he drawls, in the manner that Harry is well accustomed to, nodding towards the shop they've arrived outside. "Or do you need a few more minutes to drool?" Harry blinks, realising what he must've looked like when he was deep in thought.

"I've been in a shop before, Malfoy," he mutters, going slightly red. Malfoy smirks, aware of how contradictory Harry's actions are as opposed to his words, but he notices a light waver in the sharp lines of his lips. Not that Harry was already looking, of course.

"Well, I doubt you've been a shop like _this_ , Potter." Harry looks up to see the fancy block letters 'VERSACE' adorning a classy looking sign. He's heard of the brand and is mildly impressed that Malfoy is well acquainted with actual _Muggle_ brands, even if they are designer. Harry'd thought that perhaps his clothes were custom-tailored, but the other man seems to be embracing Muggle culture. True to Malfoy's remark, however, he himself has never really been in a designer store. Not to actually _buy_ anything, anyway; it's not that he can't afford it, but rather that he's never found it necessary, when cheap clothes are just as functional. The only reason he knows the brand at all is because Hermione disagreed with one of their policies, and it was Versace this and Versace that for a short time, before returning to criticizing Pureblood tradition. Harry wouldn't be able to even read the name otherwise. Obviously, he doesn't share his thoughts with Malfoy, but wonders what Hermione would've thought about him buying something from a Versace store. Then again, what would she think about this whole situation. Harry thinks he has a pretty clear idea, and it's part of the reason he's keeping it from her, although that doesn't make him feel any less guilty about it.

Peering at his reflection in the shop window, Harry is somewhat relieved of his decision to wear semi-formal Muggle clothes to meet Malfoy – his best V-neck sweater, a collared button-down shirt, and plain trousers, to be precise – instead of denims and his favourite Letterman-style jacket. Even then, Harry thinks, he looks poorly dressed next to Malfoy's designer wear.

The blonde tugs on his arm again and leads them into the store.

The air inside the shop is cool and fresh, and light music plays in the background, a song he hasn't heard before. An assistant approaches them, and Malfoy's hand slides down to hold Harry's.

 _What the actual hell?!_

Harry reddens and instinctively tries to pull away, but Malfoy's grip just tightens _painfully_. He's stronger than he looks, and Harry stifles a yelp of discomfort. Before he can object (or possibly gouge his eye out with a hanger) however, the assistant speaks.

"Draco! What a pleasant surprise! We weren't expecting you here today," she giggles, and Harry has to wonder how many Muggle women Malfoy's in touch with, and exactly how well off he must be to come to these sorts of places and be considered a regular customer. "You know we've always told you to ring us up before coming," she adds in a mock-stern tone.

Malfoy laughs flirtatiously, and it's such a strange sound to hear coming from the blonde's mouth. He's never really heard it before; throughout school, he'd only ever heard malicious laughter coming from Malfoy, which eventually faded into nothing in the later years.

"Sorry, Anastasia, but it's taken me completely by surprise too! My _date_ here-" Malfoy nudges Harry's shoulder playfully (Harry gapes, too startled to retaliate) "- doesn't have any suits that match mine. So, we've come to get a pair of complimentary suits. You know how everyone is." Malfoy rolls his eyes, then addresses Harry, smiling. Only Harry notices the tight lines around his mouth. "Isn't that right, _honey_?"

 _Honey? Well, that's not…what?_

Having gotten over his initial shock, Harry has some semblance of possible reasons behind Malfoy's behaviour:

There's a reporter hidden here, ready to snap a picture of their 'forbidden romance', and Malfoy is about to make a _lot_ of money at Harry's expense,

Malfoy is pretending to like Harry to make it easier to believe that they'd randomly go shopping together for matching suits,

Malfoy has some sort of deranged attraction towards him.

Well, it can't really be the first one, seeing as they're shopping for a Muggle social event in order to keep _away_ from the press, and alerting a reporter defeats the purpose. Also, Malfoy is already filthy rich – he doesn't need any money. The second one, on the other hand, could make _some_ sort of sense if he was trying to appease the assistant. Why else would Malfoy want to buy a random man a suit? Although, then again, they could've pretended to be friends or something. Plus, does it really matter what the assistant thinks? But option C is completely off the mark. There is no way in hell Malfoy likes him, especially judging by his subtly pained expression, the tight clench of his hand around Harry's, and his emphasis on endearments, as if he's trying to get something across to Harry.

None of them really fit, and Harry's favouring humouring Malfoy's antics for the time being and killing him (slowly and _very_ painfully) later, when he realises that both the red-haired assistant and the blonde in question are looking at him expectantly.

"Oh, um, yeah, uh…" - _Shitshitshit_ what to say, what possible _nickname_ could one place on – "Dray," Harry finishes lamely, wincing at how awkward he sounds. Malfoy's eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond.

"Well," Anastasia addresses him, not seeming to have noticed any tension, "You certainly are lucky to have snagged someone like Draco here." She winks, turning to Malfoy. "I'll find you some _stunning_ outfits, rest assured. If you'd like to make your way to your usual dressing room?" The blonde nods, and she walks off, navigating the aisles.

"Oh, and nothing under a grand! I have a reputation to uphold, you know!" Malfoy calls after her, and Harry registers a faint laugh echoing through the shop whilst he blanches at the mention of the price, and allows Malfoy to once again drag him somewhere – this time the destination being his 'usual' dressing room, as the assistant has put it.

As soon as the dressing room door clicks shut behind them, Malfoy's smile slips, and he wrenches his hand out of Harry's grasp, wiping it on his trousers. The gesture irritates Harry, who really doesn't appreciate Malfoy acting as Harry had been the one clinging on to him, rather than the other way around.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?!" he growls. The blonde flinches, but Harry doesn't care to consider why. "Are you out of your bloody mind? You never told me we had to pretend to be…to be…" He doesn't even want to say it.

"As if I would _want_ to do anything like that, Potter!" Malfoy retorts angrily. "But Anastasia only works as an assistant for fun. Her family's closely linked to Gianni Versace and his family, and they deeply disapprove of her interest in what they deem a… _common_ job. This is one of their original British stores, so she works here. She only works part time, anyhow; she's normally managing things. I'm not really partial to gingers, as you know." The comment seems almost directed at Ginny, and Harry feels a twinge of…sadness. He supposes he knows by now that Malfoy can't help but be a twat, and those sorts of issues don't bother him. It's the little things that get to Harry. And who knows? Maybe Harry's overthinking it. He definitely was when Ginny first disappeared. Malfoy, continues to talk, not seeming not to have noticed – and if he has, he doesn't care. Probably the latter.

"Cheer up, Potter, I was _joking_." Well, definitely the latter, then…But Malfoy's retort doesn't have the usual bite to it. "Listen, will you? Anastasia takes a personal interest in my life, after I saved hers-" _He did what?_ Harry barely has time to process the idea. "-don't you dare, Potter, I'm not who I was – and walking in with someone I've never seen before is going to spark her curiousity. She'll act subtle, of course, but she's going to start prying. I assume she's already aware that I cancelled my date yesterday, and this… _new development_ should clear some things up, but she's not going to be satisfied. And no, we can't just be friends, because that's just _wrong_ in upper class culture, not that you'd have an inkling, the way your type shag like rabbits. We, on the other hand, prefer to save ourselves, whatever ever the temptation." He casts a disgusted look at Harry. "Not that there's much temptation _here_ , if any at all.

"Obviously, I wasn't expecting her to be here today, but I don't know her schedule. So sorry, Golden Boy-" Hasn't Harry told Malfoy not to call him that? "- but you're going to have to play along. And don't argue with me on this, Potter, because you really _don't_ have a choice. Besides, you're in front of the cameras all the time anyway – you must know how to act somewhat satisfactorily. I highly doubt that someone like you would know this, but wearing matching suits to social events signals a close relationship, so everyone else tomorrow night shouldn't be as…well, awkward. We won't have to pretend that much, is what I'm saying."

Malfoy talks an awful lot, and Harry isn't sure he's grasped all of that ranting. He wasn't even really listening, to be honest. However, one thing is crystal clear:

Malfoy's trying to one up him, and Harry is not going to let that happen.

"Yeah, well, well…" Oh Merlin, he has to actually _think_ of something to throw back at him. "Uh…urm." Malfoy snorts.

"Problem, Potter?"

Harry suddenly remembers something.

"Yes, there is, actually," he asserts, folding his arms. "Why did you call me honey? That's taking it a bit too far, isn't it?" To his chagrin, Malfoy just smiles.

"Well, I can't exactly be calling you Potter, can I? You better just endure it, _honey_ ," Draco simpers. Potter rolls his eyes. This isn't going anywhere.

"Yes, _Dray_ ," Harry responds innocently. Malfoy scrunches his face up in distaste.

"Don't you dare defile my name, Potter!" he snaps. Harry raises an eyebrow.

"Already back to Potter?" Harry says, repressing the urge to smile. He can see Malfoy struggling to stay in control.

"Potter, honey, Golden Boy, _whatever_. We're not in front of anyone, are we?" The blonde is nonchalant, almost bored, even, and Harry is mildly impressed at how quickly Malfoy reigned in his anger. That is, before he continues. "But you cannot call me 'Dray'! It's a downright insult."

If Malfoy had wanted Harry to listen to him, he shouldn't have said that. Anastasia chooses that moment to come in, laden under a mountain of expensive looking clothes.

"Whatever you want, Dray," Harry grins, to which Anastasia makes a swooning noise, placing the various suits down.

"You two are just adorable! I wish my fiancé had pet names for me. Oh, well. I guess we don't know each other well enough for that." Harry glances confusedly at Malfoy, who mouthes 'arranged marriage'. "Well. All these suits are £1950 or above…I think that should be good enough for the others, Draco. And yes, they match – perfectly. I'll leave you to it, then!" She beams, and exits happily. Harry turns to Malfoy.

"Not that I mind… _Dray_ , but why the fuck would you want such bloody _expensive clothes_?" Malfoy grimaces.

"I am never going to get used these nicknames," he mutters, before raising his chin higher. "Some of us live to high standards, _honey_. I'm sure you can avoid it, so quit whining and let's try some of these on." Harry half-nods.

It's as if someone's flipped a switch on Malfoy. He immediately begins rifling through clothing, a determined look on his face. His tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth as he concentrates, and Harry would think it cute if it was anyone but Malfoy.

Harry just stands there for a minute or two, watching him work. He can tell he isn't needed.

"No, too dull," the blonde murmurs, placing another set of suits in a rapidly growing _'declined'_ pile. As of yet, the _'accepted'_ pile is non-existent. It's not really a surprise, though, considering it's _Malfoy_ who's doing the sorting. Harry thought quite a few looked more than decent, but obviously, they've got different levels of standards.

"Try this on, Potter." Malfoy tosses a suit over his shoulder, and Harry lunges forwards to grab it. In his hurry, he overbalances, and goes flying – right on top of the blonde, in fact, who collapses beneath him with an _'oof'_.

Harry just about catches himself before he crushes Malfoy, who turns over to look up at him, eyes wide with surprise. Harry stares down at the man sprawled under him, frozen. Suddenly, Malfoy shoves against his chest, and Harry topples over completely, trapping the blonde underneath him.

"Oi, you _oaf_!" Malfoy's voice is muffled against Harry's shoulder, and he's pushed back again, with a whole lot more force. Harry rolls off him quickly, and stands up, with Malfoy following suit. The blonde glares daggers at him, and the silence begins to stretch into something awkward – something Harry is quite keen on breaking.

"Oaf, huh?" Harry chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "I thought we were going with something…different?" Malfoy simply continues to glare at him, and snatches the suit off the floor, thrusting it into Harry's hands.

"Just hurry up and try this on." Harry raises an eyebrow. "Honey," Malfoy hisses. Harry accepts the clothes and pulls off his jumper.

"Didn't know we were using nicknames in private," he comments as he begins to unbutton his shirt. Malfoy actually flushes – in frustration, Harry can tell.

"But you - I mean – you said that I called you – oh forget it," the blonde huffs, folding his arms and looking away. Harry laughs again, and he's surprised to find that he is properly laughing, not just being sarcastic. His shirt drops to the floor, and as he begins to unbutton his trousers, Malfoy makes an undignified noise and turns his back, pointedly looking at the floor as to avoid the various mirrors.

"A little bit of warning, next time!?" Malfoy manages, only making Harry smile again.

"What?" he teases, stepping out of his trousers and reaching for the designer suit. "Are you a prude or something?"

"No, but I do have a sense of common courtesy, unlike you." Malfoy's voice sounds forced.

"You shared a room with a bunch of boys at Hogwarts, though, didn't you? I bet they didn't hide themselves away for your comfort, did they?"

Malfoy simply sniffs, and Harry rolls his eyes, tucking the top into his trousers. The blonde has chosen a dark set, with a black suit jacket, a dark grey button-down, and a pitch-black pair of trousers. It seems pretty drab to him, and he seriously doesn't want to wear it. Harry doubts he has much of a choice, but maybe he'll get out of it if he says it's too tight or something. Now that he thinks about it, it is pulled ever so slightly taut over his shoulders.

He looks up to see Malfoy almost completely dressed in an identical suit, and the image that immediately comes to mind is sixth year, where he was constantly wearing similar suits. Malfoy finishes buttoning up, and, smoothing down his clothes, swivels to face Harry. Malfoy tilts his head, seeming displeased, then peers past him at his own reflection.

His eyes go dark.

"Take it off," he says quietly, not waiting to shrug off his own jacket, unbuttoning the top quickly, and he just knows that Malfoy has had the same thought. Harry catches a flash of pale skin as Malfoy undresses and averts his eyes, suddenly understanding the blonde's earlier discomfort.

"What?" Harry hears Malfoy mock. "Are you a prude or something?" Harry grins, catching Malfoy's eyes in the mirror.

"Touché, touché. Got any other suits?" Malfoy lets his shirt drop, and bends over the pile, once again assessing the clothes. Harry finds himself transfixed on the blonde's back, watching the lean muscles move, and trails his gaze down the other's spine, until he reaches-

"What about this? The jacket has working sleeves, which is an absolute must." Malfoy turns around, eyes gleaming as he waits for Harry's opinion. Harry has no idea what 'working sleeves' means, but is slightly warmed at the idea of Malfoy actually thinking to clarify with _Harry_ of all people, but quickly brushes it off. Malfoy's not like that. It's probably only due to the fact that Harry's paying for these clothes too, or something along those lines.

The suit in question consists of a forest green button down, with a black jacket, a similarly dark coloured waistcoat, and a pair of fitted trousers. It's actually a pretty good-looking suit, and Harry hums in appreciation. His eyes flit over to the edge of the pile, where a pastel green sleeve pokes out from underneath a mountain of clothes. Harry tugs at the sleeve, and the shirt comes loose. He holds it up for Malfoy to see.

"How about I wear the forest green one, and you wear this lighter green one?" Harry suggests. He's pretty proud of himself for thinking of it – two twin black suits with individual shades of green certainly would look great. Even if Malfoy is wearing one of them. The man in questions scrunches his face up in contemplation.

"But they aren't identical," he frowns.

"Yeah, but you said matching, not identical. The colour scheme would compliment each other's suits. And plus, the outfits are practically the same. It's just the shirts that are different shades," Harry points out, recalling something Fleur once explained to him about how important colour and shade were in establishing someone's mood. Malfoy seems to consider this, and then nods, handing over the suit, and picking up the counterpart. He pulls the dark green shirt out of his set and tosses it aside, instead slotting Harry's suggestion into place.

"Hmm," he says, holding it against the light. "Didn't think you had it in you to choose something not completely fashion-backward. I wonder where you learnt that from? Not the Weasleys, I suppose." Harry is about to protest that actually, Fleur is now considered a Weasley, so yes, he did learn it from them, when he catches the cleverly hidden compliment. Deciding not to elaborate, he instead smiles a little lopsidedly.

"Wanna try them on, then?" Harry prompts, still clad in the dark suit.

"Sure, honey," Malfoy smirks, turning away once again. He really doesn't understand why Malfoy finds it necessary to throw the stupid nickname at him every now and then.

They dress fairly quickly, and move to stand beside each other, gazing into the wide mirror. Harry's idea seems to have paid off – the suits really do compliment each other, better than matching suits could've. On top of that, the colours seem to suit their individual styles. The forest green brings out Harry's bright eyes, and the pastel green lays gently against Malfoy's own pale skin.

And besides, the clothes are a perfect fit.

"We look gorgeous," Malfoy proclaims arrogantly, before frowning slightly. "Well, at least I do. I'm not sure that unruly mess of hair will ever look good." Harry sighs, and once again rolls his eyes, albeit it being good-naturedly.

"I guess we achieved our goal, _Dray_ ," Harry agrees, and he can just _sense_ Malfoy's objection to the nickname, when Anastasia walks in, letting out a low whistle and cutting off anything Malfoy might've had to say about _'defiling his name'_.

Serves him right, Harry thinks triumphantly.

"You two look _great_! Damn, Draco, you really outdid yourself this time. Complimenting shades? What a stroke of genius!" Harry catches Malfoy's eyes and nods, giving his permission for Malfoy to take the credit. He doesn't need it – not even as half as much as Malfoy might. The blonde smiles softly, and the expression seems directed at Harry, although it could only logically be for the assistant.

"Actually, Anastasia, it was all his idea," Malfoy says to Harry's utter surprise, leaning against him. Harry allows it for the sake of keeping up the pretence. It needs to be believable, Harry reminds himself, even forcing himself to wrap a rigid arm around Malfoy in return. Instead of stiffening, Malfoy just seems to further relax. He must have had practise, Harry supposes.

"You two are just too cute," Anastasia gushes. "Well, Draco, I officially approve of your new flame if his fashion sense is on point." The two men glance at each other again, almost laughing at the idea of Harry's fashion sense being anywhere near on point. "So, is that your final decision? Please tell me it is. All eyes are going to be on you!" Harry shifts uncomfortably at the idea, and Malfoy just presses further into him, as if to reassure him.

"You mean all eyes are going to on _me_ , Anastasia. Well then…let's pay." _Oh, damn._ Harry hasn't even considered how much these clothes might cost. He'd gotten lost in all the searching and dressing, which doesn't actually seem like anything he'd ever imagined getting lost in. Malfoy pulls away from him, but Harry doesn't allow himself to mourn the loss of contact. He has no real reason to, after all. He just likes human contact; it's reassuring. In fact, Hermione's told him this much, so he knows it's not an excuse.

Harry follows Anastasia and Malfoy out of the room, and towards the till, reluctantly reaching for his wallet. He knows he's got a Muggle card stashed somewhere; he'll just have to fish it out. Before he can do anything of the sort, though, Malfoy is handing his card over to the lady at the till.

"One of those big bags, too, Lesley," the blonde says smoothly, and the lady – Lesley – takes the freshly folded clothes from Anastasia and places them carefully into the bag. She swipes his card, and Malfoy takes the bag in one hand, clasping Harry's hand in the other. "Let's go, honey." They walk out together, hand in hand.

They keep holding hands until they turn the corner to another street filled with stores; only then do they release each other, certain that they are out of Anastasia's sight. Harry immediately folds his arms.

"How much did those suits cost?" he demands, gesturing towards the shopping bag. Malfoy shrugs.

"It's irrelevant," he says simply, shifting the bag from one hand to the other. Harry scowls. They're not going to start this again, are they?

"It bloody well _is_ relevant, Malfoy, 'cos I need to know how much I owe you," he insists. He still doesn't know why Malfoy paid for him, or what caused him to change his mind in the first place, but whatever Harry might've said earlier, he doesn't actually want Malfoy to be buying him things. That would just be another person on top of all the unwanted people who get him things he doesn't need.

Malfoy meets his eyes with a steely gaze.

" _You_ don't _owe_ me _anything_ , Potter." The message is clear in his expression. "Don't forget that."

"Malfoy, you can't honestly think I-" Harry barely gets the sentence started before Malfoy interrupts angrily.

"I don't have a clue what you think, Golden Boy, but it means something to me, okay? Haven't you heard of wizarding debts? Don't you _know_ what position I'm in?" Harry knows about wizarding debts due to experience with Peter Pettigrew, but this is different, and Harry's sure of it.

"You…" Malfoy continues, "You are the last person I would've wanted to look after me, Potter. Because I owe you, okay? And buying you some clothes is nothing compared to that. Now, come on. We're not done yet – we still need shoes, ties-"

"I'm serious, Malfoy," Harry says quietly. "You are not in debt to me." Malfoy stops, exasperated.

"How can you say that?" he cries. "You are so incredibly dense, Potter! I have _literally_ just explained-"

"I asked you once before. About why you did it. About why you lied to Bellatrix. I get it now; you're not going to tell me. But it still stands. Malfoy, for a short while, I was in your debt. You saved my life at the Manor. I simply returned the favour in the Room of Requirement, and as for testifying…you weren't the only one. Of course, I didn't do it solely because of my debt to you, but, you know…" Harry trails off, trying to assess Malfoy's guarded expression.

 _There's no point in taking this any further_ , he decides.

"So," Harry starts up again, grinning at the subdued blonde. "About those shoes?" Malfoy seems as if he wants to say something more, but then follows Harry's line of thinking, and rolls his eyes, lightening up slightly.

"Right this way, honey," he responds cheekily, commencing to go down the road they're on.

"Whatever you want, Dray," Harry quips, easily catching up to him. He suspects Malfoy is going slow so Harry can keep up. It annoys him slightly. Not that Malfoy is walking with him, or that he's attempting to be polite – in fact, Harry thinks he might learn to adjust to this new Malfoy, when he gets over their history. No, what annoys him is that Malfoy's so much damn _taller_ than Harry. He doesn't like having to looking up to anyone, much less _Malfoy_. And, regardless of how much they've matured, Harry doubts that either of them can simply put the bad blood behind them, so the rivalry is always going to be there in some regard, the need to constantly up one another. However, and Harry falters a bit as he thinks this, perhaps they _can_ survive this sentence.

Well, if it's not extended, that is. He doesn't even want to think about _that._

Malfoy's at the till, picking up something from the shoe store they're in. Harry can't quite pronounce the name. Obviously, they're also here to get shoes for the event, so Harry takes the liberty to explore the shop. He's seen quite a few pairs that he thought could possibly go with the suits they've bought, but all he has to do is take a look at the prices to reconsider each time. He can already feel the guilt crawling up on him at having someone buy something so unnecessarily extravagant for him- he's not inclined to add more depth to that shame. He traces the credit card he's keeping close at hand once again. This time, he's not going to let Malfoy pay.

Malfoy laughs from the back of the store, and Harry peeks at him through the shoes racks, absentmindedly picking up a pair of polished brown shoes that he thinks look pretty decent. The blonde doesn't actually know all the ladies in London, but he's damn near to capturing another woman's adoration, from the way he's behaving. The slender man nonchalantly slips his card in the machine, keeping up jovial conversation all the meanwhile. The till worker, blatantly smitten, hands over the package with a flirty smile and a giggle. Harry glances past them for a moment, trying to see if there are any special deals on offer.

There aren't.

He looks back to see Malfoy striding over to Potter with yet another bag in one hand. His gaze drops to the shoes Harry is holding, and his face contorts into an expression of horror. He frantically drops the bags onto the nearest cushioned seat, scrambling the rest of the way and grabbing the shoes out of his hands. He doesn't hesitate to throw them back onto the racks.

"Honey, you have to be more careful!" Harry goes red at the almost casual use of a pet name. Thankfully, the Muggles closest to him are too engrossed in attempting to fit a dainty shoe on an enormous foot to care. Not that they would think anything was awry. They'd simply assume that he and Malfoy were…

On second thoughts, Harry thinks denial is the best policy.

Malfoy's expression is still stricken, and the more he concentrates on Malfoy's face, the more Harry feels alarmed. It couldn't be…

 _Oh, shit._

"Is it Dark Magic or something?" Harry asks, panicked. "How did they find me - us? Did they know we were coming?"

Malfoy stares at him for a moment, before snorting, almost completely out of character.

"What? No! Seriously, not everything's about you, honey." Harry feels the blush coming again. "Although, all things considered, it _should_ be Dark Magic," Malfoy adds darkly.

"Would you care to explain why you freaked out then?" Harry retorts, beginning to become embarrassed.

"Brown shoes, honey. Obviously," Malfoy responds, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, although it really isn't.

"Um…what?" Harry asks sheepishly. The blonde looks at him as if he's berating a particularly thick five-year-old.

" _Brown shoes_ ," he repeats, as if it will sink into Harry's mind. It doesn't.

"Oh lord," Malfoy whispers. "You really _weren't_ lying, were you?"

Harry is getting pretty annoyed at Malfoy's ambiguity, as well his overuse of the nickname. So, in retaliation, he picks up the offending pair again. The effect is instantaneous; Malfoy yelps, and grabs the shoes, thrusting them back onto the rack, before looking to check if anyone is aware of his actions. The Muggles, though, have given up on the dainty pair, and are now discussing alternatives, again not noticing the scene Malfoy and Harry are making.

"Honey!" And there it is again. The word sounds like an insult on Malfoy's tongue; seems foreign, almost. "It's common knowledge amongst the upper class that you should never, _ever_ wear brown shoes in a city! They're only ever permitted for _country walks_ , and the likes of such. And, if you were to buy shoes for that sort of occasion, there are certain stores that you should go to, and _this_ shop is not one of them. These are only sold in this store for the middle-class customers. So please, _please_ don't embarrass me again. Please."

Harry laughs, partly at the fact that he's never heard Malfoy say the word _'please'_ so many times in one sentence, and partly because the entire affair is just so _Malfoy_ -like.

"Well, you're going to have to teach me, Mal - uh, Dray? - because I have no clue what you're talking about." The nickname tastes foreign on his tongue, but it's not a bad sensation. Kind of exciting, actually. Malfoy rolls his eyes.

"Well, we have plenty of time for all that, don't we? Besides, I've already bought two pairs of black Gucci shoes – Emily over there recommended them to me, and, as they've just come in, I thought they were good enough." Harry gets exactly three things from this:

He's going to have to actually spend time with Malfoy – a lot of it, too. The notion hasn't quite sunk in.

Malfoy seems to be on a first name basis with the assistant already, and talks about her with a casual familiarity that doesn't come from one visit…

The taller man has once again spent money on Harry. Having looked at the sale prices, he couldn't begin to imagine what a pair of the latest shoes must cost, let alone two pairs.

Harry voices the second two thoughts to Malfoy, who seems slightly…wistful? It's confusing; Harry's only used to seeing that sneer and the occasional expression of fear on Malfoy's face.

"I've known Emily for a while now, actually. I just have to…Obliviate her every time. And I told you, the prices mean nothing to me." Harry cocks his head, surprised.

"You _Obliviated_ her? Why? Is that even allowed?" Malfoy stiffens.

"Oh, I forgot. You're meant to be keeping an eye on me. Well, rest assured, _honey_ , I'm not doing her any harm. She just simply doesn't remember seeing me – it's hardly Dark Magic. And as for why, well…" He snatches up the bags and taps one of them against the side of his leg. "Can't have her telling anyone about this. It's for my…private collection, shall we say? Undoubtedly, it'd cause a scandal if anyone of importance were to find out about it." As he talks, Malfoy seems to relax, and Harry thinks that he can let the Obliviating slip. After all, the Ministry told him to be on the lookout for Dark Magic, and unless the bag contains something shifty, Malfoy hasn't really done anything wrong…Harry finds himself curious as to what the mysterious parcel could be. It's no Dark artefact; Harry would've felt the residue. Plus, it wouldn't cause a scandal between _Muggles_ if it were, no matter how sophisticated.

So, what is it?

Again, Harry repeats his thoughts to Malfoy, earning a devious smirk.

"Wouldn't you like to know? No, wait, let me rephrase that: you're not going to want to know." If anything, this just further provokes Harry to continue.

"Show me," he insists, and Malfoy's smirk only widens. He grabs Harry's hand and begins pulling him through the shop again.

"If you really want to, honey." Malfoy laughs at his own statement, and Harry finds that he's beginning to like the sound of Malfoy's laugh. It helps him differentiate between the boy he knew and the man he sees.

Harry is unceremoniously dragged into another dressing room, this one less fancy and spacious than the other, but rather long and narrow, almost like a catwalk. Harry supposes it's good for trying out shoes.

Malfoy bends over to pull something out of the bag. Almost automatically, Harry looks away, although it's more for himself then it is for the blonde. Two loud clacks indicate the object being pulled out, and he spins to look, only to have Malfoy swiftly hide whatever it is behind his back. There aren't even any mirrors to give Harry a sneak peek.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chides. "No looking until I'm wearing them, honey." Malfoy is enjoying being able to embarrass Harry far too much – he knows exactly what effect the names have on him.

"We're not in public," Harry mutters in return, but looks away. There's a bit of shuffling, and the distinct sound of zips being pulled up offers next to no clue as to what kind of shoes they are. They must be shoes; what else would Malfoy be wearing in a shoe shop? Perhaps they're boots – those can have zips, right? Although why those aren't considered acceptable, Harry doesn't get. Another strange upper-class thing, perhaps.

"Before you look at me Potter-" Malfoy's got the meaning behind his statement about being in public "-you have to promise not to laugh. Or tell anyone. And I mean it, honey." Maybe not, then. Harry nods, hoping Malfoy is facing his way. "You can look then, I guess." He seems unsure of himself. It's a tone Harry's unfamiliar with, and as he turns, he realises why.

The blonde is in _heels_.

 _Actual goddamn six-inch-high-heeled boots_. And perhaps most disconcerting of all:

He looks…good. Like, _really_ good. As if he were made to wear them. They accentuate his long, slim legs, and Harry's sure that if he turns, they'll be doing wonders for his arse, too. Not that Harry wants to think about that, of course. In fact, he can't even believe that he's just had that thought. As if on cue, though, Malfoy turns and stretches, showing off, and does indeed confirm Harry's theory in the process. The blonde glances back to assess himself, and catches Harry's line of sight.

"Hey, eyes up here, honey," Malfoy taunts, and Harry's eyes snap up to meet Malfoy's. His mouth curls ever so slightly. "I know I look good Potter," he drawls in continuation, "but we've got places to be, things to do. And please don't look at me like that," he adds, sitting down, "It's really quite off-putting." He takes the heels off with precision.

"Why?" The question is a simple one, but Harry's sure that Malfoy catches his meaning. An unwritten question: _Why would you wear them?_ The blonde's expression opens up, and it's just so weird. He thinks that perhaps he should learn to think of this new Malfoy as a different person to the boy he went to school with. It would be easier, anyhow.

"They aren't approved of, first and foremost. No self-respecting Pureblood male would be caught dead even _thinking_ about wearing them, and the same with Muggles, although you only have to look back a century or two to see how fashionable it was for men in those times. Nowadays, though, it makes me unique. Go ahead and judge, Potter, but I think we're long past that. And…it makes me different to my…to my ancestors."

Harry notices his careful aversion from his father.

"It, it makes me feel…strong, almost. Oh, what the hell, Potter, I like them. I'd never wear them in public, of course. My collection is strictly forbidden to my bedroom. Not even Mother knows about it. Scorpius on the other hand…" He grins, and Harry gets the gist.

Malfoy straightens up.

"Right, well. Best get going. We've got two more stops to make."

Harry groans, and begins to protest.

"We don't know if those shoes fit me, Malfoy, and if you think I'm letting you pay, then think again. I haven't let that slip, you know." Malfoy buries his forehead in his hands, his groan echoing Harry's.

"Size seven, right?" Harry blinks dumbfounded. _How did Malfoy know-?_

"Yeah, but-" Before Harry can say anything further, Malfoy scoops the bags up in one hand, grabbing Harry's hand again in the other, and drags them out of the dressing room.

"You say so much as _one_ more thing about prices, honey," Malfoy mutters as they exit the store, "and I will take it as a personal insult to my fortune. Money. Isn't. An issue. Now, you're going to have to get over it, and quick, because I'll have you know that we're going to a jewellery store for some finishing touches to our jackets. And yes, we have to – it's the entire point of having working sleeves." Harry will have to get Malfoy to explain this entire 'working sleeves' thing to him some time he isn't utterly resisting to Malfoy's suggestions.

"Why the actual hell do we need jewellery?" Harry demands as he's unwillingly pulled along. "Dray," he adds as they pass the Versace store. Malfoy doesn't elaborate, so Harry keeps ranting. "Honestly, it's like I'm shopping with a girl or something! Just because you look bloody great in heels doesn't give you a licence to act like-" Harry realises what he's just admitted, and his mouth snaps shut.

"You know," Malfoy says smugly, "For that… _compliment_ , I might just let you off for calling me a girl, and for assuming that heels are for females, Golden Boy." Harry splutters but says nothing further, not wishing to dig himself into a deeper hole. A sharp tug on his arm has him changing direction, and they step into a brightly furnished store, extravagantly decked in gold. Harry looks at the price of one tiny charm that wouldn't even match half the size of his pinkie nail, and does a double take. They can't honestly be shopping here, can they? Any sane person would be able to tell that everything in this store is a complete rip off. He looks searchingly at Malfoy, but the blonde doesn't look as if he's about to leave any time soon.

"Here," Malfoy says, thrusting the many bags into Harry's hands. "Hold these. I'm going to find us some cufflinks. Try not to break anything, honey." And with that, he's weaving through the store, leaving Harry wondering how he was able to hold the bags for so long with such ease. They're goddamn _heavy_. After two minutes of milling about, Harry decides, fuck it, he's not holding these bags any longer than he absolutely has to. He places the bags carefully against the side of a display, then peers over to look at it.

Immediately, one piece captures Harry's interest. An elaborately braided silver ring sits nestled in an off-white velvet cushion, taking the shape of two snakes. The mouths meet at a large emerald gem, supported by the tiny fangs. Despite his past experience with the creatures, Harry can't help but be mesmerised by the ring – it really is beautiful. And even though the jewel is hefty, the ring itself seems delicate, dainty. Harry can imagine it on a dainty finger, and it's no use pretending that the hand he thinks it would suit is anyone else than Malfoy's. Just as he's thinking this, someone taps him on the shoulder, hard and heavy.

He swivels to face an old man in uniform, who's looking at him disdainfully. It rather reminds him of Vernon Dursley, although he can't quite imagine him working _here_.

"May I help you?" Harry asks as politely as possible. The man curls his lip, and unlike Malfoy, it's an extremely ugly expression on him.

"It's only that we don't permit simple window shopping here, sir. We require our customers to _buy_ something." Oh. So, this is what this is about. Status, class, and all that shit. The guy probably thinks that he's gonna buckle under the thought of being called out. Well, this man doesn't know who he's talking to. Harry's got plenty of experience with handling prejudice, so much that he could write a book about it. Or several. And he's about to get a taste of it.

"Contrary to your belief, I _am_ here to buy something," Harry asserts, squaring himself up. "In fact, I want to get this ring right here." He points to the silver jewellery, steeling himself when he glimpses the price. Yeah, it's overpriced, but he can easily afford it. And Harry can't exactly back out now.

Not that he wants to. Anyone who's got their head full of shit like this needs to be shown exactly how wrong they are. The man huffs.

"Young man, I don't think you understand. You couldn't _possibly_ afford such a thing. Most university graduates don't even _earn_ half as much as this ring costs." Good thing he's the fucking Saviour, then, isn't it? Harry doesn't like his status. It's unnecessary, and gives him more grief than it's worth. But not having to worry about money in the slightest is definitely one of the perks.

Harry takes out his Muggle credit card, picking up the various bags so that the designer labels are clearly apparent.

"You've made it perfectly clear. Now, if you wouldn't mind," Harry says, gritting his teeth, "I'd like to buy the ring, please." The man frowns fiercely.

"Very well. I'll have you know, security remove you if your card doesn't meet the balance." The threat doesn't get to him.

It's a stiff walk to the till. There are two checkouts on either side of the store, for different types of purchases, and Harry can only feel grateful that Malfoy's currently on the other end. He doesn't need him interfering with his money, or questioning his purchases. Harry still doesn't know what he's going to do with the ring. Perhaps Malfoy'll find a use for it.

The man reluctantly wraps up the ring and slides it over a scanner. The price flashes up on the screen, and Harry inserts his card, feeling a grim satisfaction as the man blanches at the balance held within his card. Gringotts put it on the maximum value, so Harry can only imagine how much is showing up.

The transaction passes through, and Harry pulls out his card, taking the small box and slipping it into his pocket. He walks back towards the display where he was waiting for Malfoy, only to find that the old man is trailing behind him. This is getting ridiculous. Harry stops at the glass case and turns angrily.

" _What_?" he snaps at the man, irked off. He's bought the goddamn thing, hasn't he? What more does he have to do? He shouldn't even _have_ to prove anything to this old prick.

"I don't know where you've been laundering money from, but you will be apprehended for this. No fraud is allowed to steal from this store. Do not take me for a fool, you insolent young man." Before Harry can do something rash, a strong arm wraps itself around Harry's waist and pulls him flush against another body – Malfoy. Harry immediately knows what the gesture means, and tries to relax into the blonde's comforting hold. It's not as difficult as Harry would've thought. Physical contact, he remembers.

"I'm sure calling a customer such names are strictly against store policy, Grewell." Malfoy's voice is smooth, but the stare he fixes Grewell – Merlin, the name sounds dreadful – is chilling to the bone. The man immediately stills, and Malfoy takes the opportunity to rest his chin on Harry's shoulder. His chin is pointy, but not uncomfortably so.

Malfoy makes sure Grewell's attention is still on them – which of course it is – before leaning in to Harry's ear.

"Everything alright, honey?" he whispers, and Harry can hear the clogs turning in the old man's brain as realisation dawns on his face. The expression almost makes Harry laugh. He guesses he really _doesn't_ look like he's got any money. Malfoy's obviously left his mark here, though.

"S-sir, my utmost apolo-" Harry cuts off the man's sycophantic grovelling to address Malfoy.

"Just some unneeded prejudice, Dray," Harry responds off-handedly. Malfoy chuckles, breath too warm in his ear, and Harry resists the urge to squirm. His mind is screaming that this is Malfoy he's cuddling up to, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? It'll look bloody _awful_ if Harry pulls away now. He'll just remind Malfoy of an important concept called _personal space_ once they're out of this goddamn shop.

"I told you your clothes were too casual, honey." He did nothing of the sort, but what's one more lie? "You've had your warning, Grewell." It's scary how quickly Malfoy's voice drops in temperature. Before Grewell can even whimper, Malfoy's guiding Harry out of the store.

They step into an alleyway, and Malfoy steps back a few paces, expression hardening.

"I'd kill you for making me do that for you, but that man's a fucking prick, so I'll let you off."

"My thoughts exactly," Harry replies. Malfoy shakes his head at him and rolls his eyes. His face loosens.

"Anyway, I think I've had enough shopping for now, don't you?" Harry can't agree more. He just wants to go home and flip off that stupid yelling portrait, then put his feet up on the centuries old furniture as a further 'fuck you' to the pompous Blacks. "So, seven o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Floo to the Manor. I'll have the wards lowered for you."

Harry goes still.

"Hello-o?" Malfoy says after a minute of complete awkward silence. "Earth to Potter?" Harry doesn't reply. "Honey?"

At that, Harry snorts.

"Why do I have to go to the Manor? Can't we just meet before the event or something?" Malfoy stares at him incredulously.

"Are you actually serious right now? You know, that little detail that suggests we need to be together twenty-four seventhat's beginning tomorrow morning? As well as that, there's that pesky Binding Charm that the Ministry are going to put in place. And if you're about to suggest I leave my son and my mother for you, Potter, don't, because that is out of the question."

"I wasn't going to," Harry mumbles, before adding, "And I forgot, okay? I don't like the bond thing, and I have a tendency to not think about things I don't like. It's called being positive." Malfoys snorts.

"Wow. _'Being positive'_. You even have a name for running away from your responsibilities." He shakes his head in a patronising manner and holds out a hand. "Give me the bags. I'm not trusting you to look after these things. I suspect they'll be taken care of at _my_ house.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a screaming match to attend. And, lest you forget, you need to find someone to look after your godson for a day. He can stay with us after that – it'll be no problem." Harry wonders if he should say something nice about his hospitality, and something about their… _shopping trip_ , or if he should express his worry over Teddy stepping foot in Malfoy Manor. He hopes it's not as he remembers, that they've done something with it. All of that sounds awkward on his tongue, so instead he settles for something simple.

"Good luck with that date, or um, something." Very articulate. "And, sorry." Sorry for the date, Malfoy will think. But he's also sorry for making someone spend money on him. He can provide for himself. Malfoy doesn't really reply, but nods. Harry nods back, before Malfoy Disapparates, leaving him alone in Muggle London. He's really got no desire to explore the high end of Muggle life, although he supposes that he'll be doing that anyway with Malfoy.

But for now, he Disapparates from the alleyway, back to Grimmauld Place where Hermione's recommended babysitter is playing with his godson, preparing himself to beg the man to look after Teddy for another day.

He really wishes Ron were speaking to him right now.


End file.
